White Hyacinth
by LithiumDoll
Summary: After Brennan had paused midconversation to glare at the offending bouquet for the fourth time, Angela had hidden it in her office for its own protection.


**Spoilers:** None. Set post "The Priest in the Churchyard".  
**For:** The lovely mitchy  
**Beta of happiness:** by the just as lovely giandujakiss and tired1680  
**Disclaimer:** Nothing belongs to me  
**Feedback:** A kindness, not a toll.

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After Brennan had paused mid-conversation to glare at the offending bouquet for the fourth time, Angela had hidden it in her office for its own protection. But Angela had long since declared that she, unlike some people, had a life and every intention of living it and left in a flurry of smiles, silk and perfume. 

Zack and his large pile of papers had left soon after and Brennan had lost herself in the meditative properties of skull reconstruction. Every now and then she could hear the sound of Hodgins, shoes squeaking as he pottered around his lab.

The first time she had to go into the office was perfectly valid, she'd left a book there she needed. By the fifth time Brennan felt her excuses had begun to lack something and, sitting on the couch across from the bouquet, gave up.

Whoever had sent it to her had taste, if a touch eclectic. It was beautiful by Western standards; perhaps with a slight bias towards North America, though she wouldn't like to narrow it any further without a firmer grasp of the flora native in each state.

It was distracting and, worse, it was unexplainable.

The card had been blank and her call to the florists had come up against frankly ridiculous confidentiality red tape and no debate on the issue of personal rights to information had swayed the clearly unreasonable woman.

Her intention to ask Booth to trace the delivery had been met by wide eyes and a chiding "sweetie" from Angela, then a carefully worded explanation why that was a bad idea, which indicated the woman was trying to make sure Brennan wouldn't feel like an idiot for not understanding. It was something Brennan tried to emulate when explaining her work, with varying degrees of success.

It wasn't the fact of its being – she'd been sent flowers before. It wasn't even the fact it was unmarked, it had been thoroughly tested for contaminates and been found clean.

It was the flowers themselves.

They were an unusual combination, she was sure. This wasn't a generic bouquet; it had been put together with some care. In her admittedly limited experience in the veiled warfare of romance, flowers held significance. Colour, genus, they spoke their own language.

Of course, to decipher that language, she would need to know what the words were.

Brennan left her largely ignored bowl of Ramen on the table, picked up the vase in both hands as if it were an unwieldy box or small baby – she'd never mastered the art of carrying either - and went in search of Hodgins.

He looked up, apparently amused as she placed the flowers on the workbench before him. "I'll expect dinner and a movie too, I'm not that easy."

She gave him what her grandmother had called an 'old fashioned' look, something Brennan had apparently mastered by the age of three. "What are these?"

Hodgins blinked twice and she could see responses filing through his mind. "I'm guessing anything but the names of the flowers will result in more glaring?"

"Correct."

"You want them in Latin or English?"

"English will be fine."

He reached forward to bring the vase closer. "Let's see here.

"Well, the purple ones are Clematis. Also known as Vase Vine, or Virgin's Bower." Eyebrows waggled and a grin flashed. "Despite the name, someone's admiring your incredibly large brain, Doctor Brennan." He hesitated and frowned slightly. "These are yours, right?"

A Clematis bent slightly as she ran a finger over its petals. It was a beautiful example of the Golden Ratio, large and well shaped. "Yes. You know the meanings?"

"I had a girlfriend, she-".

Brennan held up her hand to forestall the hour-long story and then pointed at the flowers she recognized. "Daisies?"

"Shasta daisy. Some people call them weeds. Kinda harsh." He looked back up and grinned. "There was no card, was there?"

"No." Brennan crossed her arms and tried not to scowl.

"There's a few meanings but one of them is 'I'll never tell'."

"Great." She let the scowl form and then lost it as she pointed to the next flower. "This one?"

"Hyacinth. White ones." The grin flashed again. "Someone thinks you're lovely. Of course, we all do."

The humor was free of the underlying earnestness; she was pleased that Hodgins perfectly understandable but somewhat awkward attraction had gone. Doubly pleased for he and Angela. But there was something in his tone that seemed suddenly reserved. She watched him carefully. "What else?"

His hands fled behind his back, posture turning from her just slightly. "Well, they're white. They're pretty. They come from parts Middle East. Nothing else."

They stared at each other for a moment but her narrowing eyes failed to prompt anything more. She stabbed her finger towards the last variety, a smaller flower with only four white petals.

"These?"

"Matthiola, they're that sweet scent. They mean bonds of affection, 'you'll always be beautiful to me' kind of deal."

"I see."

"You going to stop glaring at it now?"

"Depends. Are you going to tell me what else white Hyacinth means?"

Hodgins shook his head with an unrepentant expression, relaxing as he pushed the vase back towards her. "Hell, no. Someone sends an anonymous card, I'm not going to narc on them."

Well, it was nothing she couldn't look up herself.

She smiled and picked up the bouquet; breathing in the fragrance she'd thought was some form of artificial additive to make the flowers more appealing. "Thank you."

As an afterthought, she turned at the door. "Have a good evening."

Back in her office, she placed the vase next to her computer monitor. After a moment, she shifted it a few inches over. Then back a little further.

When it was arranged to her aesthetic standards, she sat in front of the keyboard. She stared at the flower meanings page for a moment before typing 'white Hyacinth' in its search box, one letter after another.

Her finger hovered over her mouse, her mouse hovered over the submit button. To the sound of squeaking shoes and the sweet scent of Matthiola, she tracked the cursor up to close the browser.

Maybe some mysteries could be allowed to answer themselves.

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A/N: For those wandering what another meaning of white Hyacinth is, go to iflorist dot com  



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